What Fathers Do
by EloiseAtThePlaza
Summary: "What do you want, Dad?"


**AN: Here's a short but sweet parentlock ficlet I wrote for a friend. Enjoy!**

* * *

"So what do you think, William?"

The four-year-old gave a distinctively Sherlockian sniff of disdain. "Her nose is too small," he observed, peering down at the small bundle in his arms.

Molly smiled. "Violet is only a few days old. Give her time."

"My nose was never this small." William looked over at her, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. "Was it?"

"Afraid so, love."

He let out a sigh in response. "My arms are getting tired."

Molly chuckled and gingerly rose from her seat on the sofa, crossing the room. William, all too eager to relinquish his hold his sister, held the baby out at arm's length.

"Careful," Molly advised. She bent down and took Violet into her arms. After settling the infant against her chest she straightened back up, gasping slightly as her body adjusted to the sudden strain.

"You're still hurting," William muttered, his head bowed as he twisted his hands in his lap. "She hurt you."

Too stunned to console him, Molly could only watch as he leapt from the chair and hurried upstairs. His bedroom door slammed shut once, then twice.

Molly bit her lip, glancing down at the tiny set of eyes blinking back up at her from the mound of blankets. "Oh dear. Looks like we'll have to call in reinforcements, Violet."

—

Talk to William? -M

What's wrong? SH

He's in his room. Hasn't come down for a few hours now. -M

Sulking? SH

To put it lightly. -M

On my way. SH

—

Sherlock rapped three times on the door. After no response, he tried again. "Permission to enter the armory?"

"…Granted." The response was delayed and lacked the enthusiasm Sherlock was used to associating with his son. It was worrying, surely, but nothing that a 'heart to heart' (as Molly insisted on calling this sort of conversation) wouldn't fix.

As Sherlock cracked open the door to the room, the first thing he noticed was the mess. The bed sheets were strewn across the floor and looked as if they'd been stomped on. Toys littered the path from the door to the bed, as well, making it nearly impossible to step in any given direction without tripping.

Fortunately, Sherlock had grown accustomed to wading through all manner of messes without breaking a limb or worse, ending up in hospital. "You'll need a bigger room soon," he observed, kicking a pile of Legos out of his way as he moved toward the bed. "If your grandparents keep spoiling you with gifts for every observed holiday we'll have to move house just to accommodate your growing collection of toys."

William grumbled unhappily from his balled up position on the bare mattress. "What do you want, Dad?"

"To talk with you."

"About?"

Sherlock flung himself onto the bed and pulled William into his arms. The stubborn boy put up a fight at first but eventually relaxed as Sherlock ran his hands through his curly hair.

"Violet. Let's talk about Violet."

"I don't want to."

"Why?"

William sniffed. "Because she's awful and smells like milk and hurt Mummy."

"How did she hurt Mummy?"

"You know how."

"Enlighten me."

"What does that word mean?"

"It means to explain yourself."

William sniffled again and turned over, burying his face in Sherlock's chest. He stayed like that for quite a while, not speaking. When tears began to dampen his shirt front, Sherlock felt inclined to speak up again. "Are you referring to what happened to Mummy in hospital? What you overheard the nurse saying?"

William nodded once, his face still obscured. "Yeah."

"Mummy's blood loss wasn't Violet's fault. It wasn't anyone's fault. Things like that happen during labour and delivery."

"But Mummy could have died."

"She didn't," Sherlock murmured, rubbing William's back. A small lump lodged itself in his throat as he felt his son's shoulders shake with sobs. "She's safe now. Recovering, getting rest. It'll take some time before she's back to feeling herself again but it will happen. You'll see."

"P-promise?" William pleaded, his words slightly muffled against Sherlock's chest.

Placing his cheek atop William's head, Sherlock rocked the small body huddled against his until the sobs quieted to sniffles and the sniffles gave way to the heavy, even breathing that accompanies sleep.

"Promise," he whispered, allowing his own eyes to finally drift shut.

—

Some time later, after changing Violet for the last time and nursing her to sleep, Molly somehow mustered the energy to climb all nine steps leading to the third floor. She hadn't heard a peep from either Sherlock or William for awhile and wasn't quite sure what to make of the silence which now pervaded the flat.

What if William had refused to talk to Sherlock? What if Sherlock had angered William? What if William had angered Sherlock? All three were distinct possibilities and equally exhausting to think about; Molly didn't have it in her to be an intermediary tonight or even tomorrow. She was too tired, too weak, her nerves too frayed and her mind too unsettled…oh.

From the scant light in the hallway, Molly could just make out the forms of her husband and son huddled together on the bed, their chests rising and falling in tandem as they slept. William's left hand was balled into a fist, his fingers clutching the fabric of Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock's mouth was slightly open, each exhaled breath ruffling William's unruly mop of curls.

Not having the heart to wake them for dinner just yet (Mary had been so kind as to bring over a casserole earlier in the day), Molly was content to simply watch her boys sleep, their quiet breathing and softened features dulling the ache of her body and also her heart.


End file.
